FRAGILE: Part 1
Authors: Kimberly Malone
FRAGILE
Part One
KIMBERLY MALONE
Copyright © 2015
All Rights Reserved
. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
“Are you after my family jewels, too?” the man below me asks in a deep, resonating voice.
I scowl, still wrestling with his hands. If I wasn’t so mad, I’d have thought I was in heaven to be sprawled across the guy. He seriously is model-hot in his well-fitted, light gray suit, and I’m trying not to get distracted by him—especially since I accidentally grabbed his crotch when I’d made a grab for him. Hence his comment.
“Maybe some other time, handsome,” I say.
I finally manage to get my hands around the purple pendant he’s holding, and then proceed to use my orange-painted fingernails to pull his fingers loose. The man flips me over so that I’m beneath him, pinning me down on the concrete ground of the parking garage. My anger at catching the thief turns into surprise, and then concern.
Looking up at him, I’m all the more taken. His dark brown hair is dyed blonde at the tips and styled in a sexy, disheveled manner. The guy’s got a strong jaw, his face so smooth and perfect it looks like he is chiseled out of marble. Given how his chest felt when I tackled him, I’m also starting to wonder if he’s all muscle, and despite my fear, I can’t help but be a little turned on. With how polished and utterly breathtaking he looks, I hadn’t been entirely sure that he was a thief until I saw him take the pendant back out of his pocket and look at it like his trophy.
But it’s his vivid green eyes that hold my attention the most. They bore into me, holding me in place, and I stare up at him with my mouth open for a solid minute.
“For such a stunning woman, you sure are brave,” the man says, his bass voice drawling like a hum in the air, drawing my attention.
“Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do,” I say.
“Oh?” the man says. He leans closer, and I almost go dizzy with desire as I inhale the scent of his cologne. “There are better things to do.”
I flush at his double-meaning. Partly because I’m nervous, but partly because I’m hoping he’ll take me along with the pendant.
“Don’t have a girlfriend?” I ask.
“I don’t want one,” he says.
Figures
. I should have known that a guy this hot would see no reason to have a long-term relationship. On the other hand, he’s so hot that I’d totally have a one-night stand with him, something I’d never even considered before.
“So what am I supposed to do with you?” the guy muses.
I close my eyes, as my mouth goes dry and tingles run up and down my legs and arms.
I have to at least try to fight,
I figure. Otherwise, it isn’t much of an effort. Even if I know I am a little crazy to throw myself at an over six-and-a-half-foot tall, broad-shouldered thief, I have to try to stop him.
Yanking my right arm free, I punch him in the face—which pains me probably as much as it pains him, because I really like his face, and because my knuckles crack against his jaw. However, it does the trick, and he rolls off of me with a groan.
“Sorry!” I say, unable to stop myself from apologizing. Thief or no thief, I don’t like hurting people.
I grab the dropped pendant and run like a lame flamingo in my pink strapless dress, one of my nude heels lost in our scuffle. Just as I try to shake my other heel off so I can run faster, the guy tackles me again. To my surprise, he wraps his arms around me so that when his overwhelmingly powerful body takes me down, it’s his arms that hit the concrete, not my head.
At least he’s a courteous thief,
I think.
“That’s enough of that,” he says.
The man flips me over again, trying to take the pendant from my hands. I quickly stuff the necklace down my dress, between my breasts. I have no idea where the thought came from, and why I even think it’ll work. The man pauses, staring at my chest where the slightest bit of the gold chain is sticking out. Then, he looks up into my face with a wry smirk, the discoloration of a bruise already forming on his jaw from where I’d punched him. The fact that he even hesitates to take it surprises me; he seemed like the type that wouldn’t care.
“I can’t decide if you’re a thief or a hooker,” he says.
I laugh, probably just from the tension of this encounter. “I’m wondering the same thing about you.”
The man raises an eyebrow in a perfect arch. “I’m certainly neither.”
“Don’t lie,” I say. I search around with my right hand for something to use as a weapon. “We both know you’re a thief.”
“That’s pretty funny coming from you.”
“I’m sorry for ‘stealing’ it back from you, but it doesn’t belong to you.” My hand closes over a rock. I really don’t want to do this, but I can’t let him get away.
“Oh really?” the guy asks, his voice gaining a slight sarcastic tone. “It belongs to you?”
“Well, technically yes, it did at some point, but no, not really. Not anymore.”
The man stares at me in confusion, the slightest crease in his brow. “What?”
I swing my right hand around with the rock and clock him over the head. He topples over, lying on the concrete ground with a moan. Just as I stand up, I hear a shout, and two cops come running over.
Finally,
I think.
Where were they minutes ago?
“Arrest him!” I say.
“What’s going on?” one cop asks, a thick mustache over his lips.
“He’s a thief,” I say.
The man gives a groan and stirs, rising to his knees. He puts a hand to the back of his head, and when he pulls his hand back around, there’s blood on his fingers. I wince at the sight.
“She stole my necklace,” the man says.
I pull the pendant out from between my boobs, holding it up for the cops to see. I shake the necklace a little to draw their attention up from my chest. “I saw him swipe it from the counter without paying,” I say.
“That’s because I already own the piece,” the man says. He gives another grunt, as he manages to get to his feet and pull out his wallet. He hands what looks like his driver’s license to the cops, as well as a couple of cards.
“Oh,” the mustache cop says, as if whatever he’s looking at is sufficient evidence.
Now, the cops look at me suspiciously. “Ma’am,” the other cop, who’s older and has a thick head of gray hair, says, “you’re under arrest.”
“What?!” I exclaim. I’ve experienced racism in my life, but nothing this blatant. “He’s the thief! He stole it from Marnvell Jewelers!”
“He’s the CEO of Marnvell Jewelers,” the mustache cop says, his tone drawling.
I freeze. If he’s the CEO of Marnvell Jewelers…. “Mr. Eli Richardson?!” I squeak.
Eli glares at me. “I assumed you knew that, since you picked me as a target.”
“No, no,” I say. “This is a misunderstanding. I honestly thought you were stealing the piece. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the older cop says in disbelief.
“No, I did!” I say. “I’m Ruby Jennings!”
My name means nothing to the cops, but I see both of Eli’s eyebrows go up in shock. “Miss Jennings?” Eli says in surprise.
“You know her?” one of the cops ask.
Eli, still staring at me, gestures with one hand at the pendant. “Miss Jennings is the owner of Ruby’s Jewelry, one of our jewelry line contributors. She designed this necklace, actually.”
I see the mustached cop put a hand over his face, while the older one heaves a sigh. “This is going to be a weird report,” he says.
***
Two hours later, as Eli holds a bag of ice to the back of his head and I’m wearing borrowed boots from one of the policeman since my shoes were lost, we give the police our reports at the station. The police talk with us separately, and I have to wonder, as they escort me back out to the waiting room where Eli sits, what Eli told them. He certainly has a case to make it out like I really was trying to steal the necklace. Eli eyes me warily as I walk into the room, and I give him a small smile as I take my seat again.
“I’m really sorry,” I say for the thousandth time.
Eli simply nods, and a heavy silence sits between us. The policeman in the room has his arms folded and is watching us, and there’s no sound except the ticking of a clock on the wall.
A few minutes later, our interviewing policeman comes back out. “Well, it seems that this was a big misunderstanding,” he says.
No kidding
, I think. I just want to hide my head in a bag.
“I’d just chalk it up to a bad first meeting and call it a day. Unless you want to press harassment charges?” the policeman asks Eli.
Eli glances at me. “Not unless there is a repeat offense.”
“Fair enough,” the policeman says. He makes some notes and then writes out a ticket, tears it loose, and hands it to me. “This is a warning.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you,” I add in Eli’s direction.
Nodding at me, Eli stands up, lowering his arm with the ice bag. “I have a meeting I am late for, Miss Jennings. Have a good day.”
“You, too,” I say, trying not to let my voice sound as meek and small as I feel right now. “Or, a better day.”
Eli gives me the slightest smirk, turns, and walks out of the station. I pull out my smartphone to call my assistant, Larisa, to pick me up. The cops are quick to offer me rides, but I decline as nicely as I can. I’m embarrassed enough as it is. The last thing I need is a police escort back to my home.
“Thanks for the boots,” I say. I start to take them off, but one of the policemen shakes his head.
“Keep them, ma’am,” he said. “It’d be terrible to go around Atlanta without shoes.”
“True,” I say. “Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome,” he says. Another policeman nods his head, as if he had also given me the boots, although he’s completely focused on my legs. I manage another smile as I exit the police station, waiting outside in the warmer, early fall heat. The A/C had been cranked in the station, and I am glad to feel the sunshine on my arms and face, even if it’s humid out.
Larisa arrives, dressed in a fashionable lavender business jacket and skirt, and runs out to hug me, handing me the biggest, tastiest cup of mocha, her hazel eyes behind her glasses wide. “Are you okay, Miss Jennings?”
“I’m fine; I just need out of here,” I say. I take a sip of the mocha and realize I’m a little shaky, and I let Larisa escort me by my arm to the passenger’s side.
It’s sometimes weird to me that Larisa is my personal assistant. She’s only five years older than me but she’s got her Bachelor’s and Master’s in administrative stuff, and she’s a pro at the crap that just drives me insane. Plus, unlike some of the thirty-year old veteran admins I had interviewed, Larisa was one of the few who was genuinely excited about being the assistant to a twenty-two-year-old entrepreneur. She’s become a good friend since I’d hired her—although whenever it is business hours she refuses to call me anything besides “Miss Jennings.” I’d given up arguing with her about it months ago.
Larisa drives me away from the police station. Before I know it, I am back at my penthouse, the mocha long gone, and Larisa is handing me a martini and a platter of vegetables, meat, and cheese while my chef and maid, Mrs. King, bustles in the kitchen to get lunch going. I am never at home during the workweek for lunch, but Larisa had called her and arranged for Mrs. King to come in early today.
I, meanwhile, lean back on my leather couch in the living room, staring off as I sip at the martini in my hand. My head’s throbbing, but that’s no surprise, and I finally take some headache medicine, sighing deeply. I give a good pet to my fluffy yellow cat, Buttercup, who’s curled up into my lap. I’d gotten her just a little under three years ago from a rescue shelter. She’s an older cat, incredibly sweet, cuddly, and has a passion for sleeping.
Larisa, helping Mrs. King carry sandwiches and chips to the coffee table, takes a seat beside me, petting Buttercup briefly. I gesture for Mrs. King to join us, and she sits in the armchair next to the couch we’re on.
“So what happened?” Larisa said. “Why were you at the police station?”
I chuckle. “It’s actually kind of funny,” I say. “I’m just worried about the consequences.” I give them the full scoop, leaving no detail out, and my employees and dear friends laugh as I describe myself trying to wrestle with this huge, albeit handsome thief, only to find out it was Mr. Eli Richardson.
“You have to be joking!” Larisa exclaims. She has this half-smile, half-horrified expression, as she stares at me. “Mr. Richardson? Of Marnvell Jewelers?”
“The one and only,” I say. “We went to the police station to sort through everything, and they just gave me a warning on harassment. Needless to say, I’m absolutely…aghast. I probably apologized a million times to Mr. Richardson while he was holding ice to his head.”
“You always do try to be a hero,” Larisa said after a pause. She shook her head. “Miss Jennings, I can’t believe—”
“—I know, I know,” I say. “I’m just glad Mr. Richardson was so understanding.”
“You better talk to Jonah,” Larisa says. “Just in case.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I was thinking the same thing.” Sighing again, I close my eyes and take another sip of my martini. Despite my nervousness, I chuckle, and Larisa and Mrs. King giggle with me.
“You have to admit,” Mrs. King says, “it is really ironic, and kind of comedic.”